The Whole Note
by LifesLover
Summary: Demyx spends more time imagining than living. The lot of the life of a Nobody is that it doesn't even matter. [Zemyx]


Disclaimer: 8 years later and it's still not mine. Go figure.

A/N: I started this one a while ago, and had half of it saved as a draft on my email. It's so short, you'd think I'd have finished it all in one go, but no. I finished it tonight and am uploading it just so you guys can know that I'm back! ... Again...

Any who, I've updated my profile with the latest on all of my ongoing FF's, so if you want to know about My Heart is With You or It's Complicated, that's the best place to look. It's always been my greatest love, writing, and I'm glad that I'm doing more of it. I hope you guys enjoy this little piece.

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 **The Whole Note**

Sometimes, it was only a glance.

A rare meeting of the eyes; there one minute, and gone the next.

Sometimes, he'd glance down at his hands, long fingered, strumming away at the strings of his weapon, and he'd wonder what Zexion's skin would have felt like. It had looked smooth, silky… young. Then again, Nobodies didn't seem to age, so what else would it have felt like?

He'd stare into the mirror in his room, and wonder about Zexion's cheekbones. The shape and angle, the smooth line back into his hair, connecting to ears that Demyx had never seen. He'd imagine dragging his fingertips along that line, pushing back that hair, sometimes slowly, sometimes roughly, uncovering those mysterious ears. What would they look like?

And sometimes, his mind would wander farther down Zexion's body, taking in the chin and sleek neck, and the angle of his clavicle. He'd think about the skin there, and the pulse that beat below the surface. He'd think about dipping his tongue into that shallow surface, and tasting the sweat that would gather.

He'd think about that a lot.

Demyx would sit in the meeting room and look across at Zexion, curled into a chair and silently reading a tome on something that was probably dry and boring, and for just a moment, he'd imagine dragging the man from his comfy position and hauling him away to a more private area. He'd unzip that awful black robe they were required to wear and his eyes would feast upon Zexion. Would Zexion react? Would he even care? And if he did react, how would he do it?

Demyx thought he knew. It was in those glances, the spare seconds when their eyes would graze and then move away, when, for just a moment, he thought he saw a spark in Zexion's gaze that told of his own hidden desires. Demyx's courage was nonexistent. He didn't dare.

And he'd wonder about this, too. Nobodies didn't care about much and shame had no hold in their lives. If he'd been wrong about Zexion, would it have mattered? It was disquieting, when he thought yes: it did too matter.

He'd spend his days shut in his room, fingers ghosting over the strings of the sitar, unwilling to break the silence with music. In his mind, he'd imagine Zexion instead. His fingers weren't touching strings, but human flesh. The only music he was making were the sounds coming from Zexion's mouth: moans that would turn to wails.

He'd get hot, his imagination so vivid. He'd douse himself with water, but it wouldn't make a dent.

He wanted… oh, how he wanted. He wanted to know the salty sweat of Zexion's fingers and the sweetness in his mouth. He wanted to slip his chin into the dip that joined Zexion's hip to his thigh. He wanted to brush his lips across the freckles that Demyx had once seen playing peek-a-boo with the collar of the black coat they all wore.

He wanted Zexion to want it, too.

Then Zexion left, on a mission with half the members, and Demyx still had yet to say anything.

He never got the chance to.

When word came that everyone on the mission had been vanquished, Demyx imagined that his heart had stopped; paused in the space of a whole note. Demyx didn't care that he didn't have a beating heart that could stop. And then, he just didn't care at all.

When the remaining members blithely dismissed the fall of their comrades, Demyx did, too.

What did it matter, what he'd once thought about Zexion? What did it matter, all the time he'd wasted thinking about Zexion's skin? What did it matter, the dreams he'd weaved at night: dreams about more than just Zexion's body? What did it matter, that he'd never told Zexion?

What did it matter, if he'd felt certain that Zexion felt it, too?

They were, after all, just Nobodies.

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Thank you to all who've read, this and my other stuff. You mean the world to me. Just to let you know, reviews feed my imagination. This is me totally not hinting at anything...


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